


Allergies

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Gattaca (1997)
Genre: Allergies, Dietary restrictions, Dystopia, Gen, Plot Without Plot, that's basically the whole fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 06:09:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16571132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Vincent Freeman and the everyday difficulties of pretending to be the ubermensch when you're allergic to everything under the sun.





	Allergies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trefoil_9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trefoil_9/gifts).



After they’d discussed the financials (and it was surprising how much official business there was for an illegal enterprise), German told Vincent that they would be staying the night for dinner since everything went so well.

Eugene raised an eyebrow. “I don’t remember inviting you.”

German smiled. “You and Vincent are going to be like two limbs of one man.” A comparison Vincent thought was kind of insensitive, considering. “You’re going to be around each other nearly half the day, seven days a week, sharing everything that doesn’t need to stay uncontaminated by his—” He pointed at Vincent. “—DNA. Sooner or later you’ll have to get used to it.”

“Oh, fine, he can stay. I don’t see why we need you.”

“It’s polite. We’re business partners.”

“I thought that was me and Vincent,” Eugene said. “You even gave a spiel about it, remember? Very persuasive.”

“You and Vincent aren’t business partners. How could you be? You’re the same person now,” German said. “Jerome Morrow. And I am business partners with that person.”

“Really? Well—”

Vincent cleared his throat awkwardly, just barely managing not to turn it into a coughing fit. His health wasn’t the best lately, getting over a month-long cold, not that it was ever all that great.

German and Eugene looked over at him in surprise. As if they’d forgotten he was even there in their zest for argument. German might claim to be partners with the two-legged Jerome Morrow but it was clear that he still thought of Jerome Morrow as, well, Jerome Eugene Morrow.

“Yes?” Eugene said after staring at Vincent for a second.

“Do you have anything gluten free?” Vincent said. “I mean, if I’m going to be staying for dinner.”

Eugene frowned and turned to German. “You didn’t mention anything about gluten intolerance.”

Vincent felt extremely objectified. But then, German had given a speech about Eugene’s physical fitness to Vincent as well, hadn’t he? And that one had ended in front of Eugene himself.

No wonder Eugene had looked grumpy, although to be fair Vincent was beginning to believe that was his base state.

“I offered you information on all serious health risks and defects,” German said placidly. “No one considers gluten intolerance a serious health risk, Jerome. It can lead to nausea, vomiting, constipation, a variety of other problems, but they’re manageable. Besides, Vincent’s been gluten free his whole life. He knows how to avoid gluten. Right, Vincent?”

Vincent winced. He’d only realized he needed to avoid gluten in his late teens, and even now he often messed up. Stores and restaurants really didn’t cater to a condition that was so obviously invalid. But, “Right.”

Eugene nodded. “So we’ll just have to keep all wheat out of the house. Lovely.”

“You can eat all the wheat you want,” Vincent said. “I’ll just eat something else. Although gluten isn’t really that good for you anyways…”

He trailed off when Eugene gave him a look that clearly said, “Do I look like I give a fuck?”

“You’ll be fine,” German said encouragingly. “Coexisting is never easy, but all my clients have worked it out. Consider him a roommate. You went to college, right, Jerome?”

“For physics,” Eugene bit out. He said to Vincent. “I don’t have much that’s made for a gluten intolerance. I was really only planning on having canned soup or ordering a pizza. I also have fruit and vegetables, nuts, eggs…”

“Ah, you should know I also have a nut allergy,” Vincent said.

“To peanuts?”

“Peanuts and tree nuts,” Vincent said. “That actually could kill me, so.”

Eugene slowly nodded. “And that’s it? Those are all your allergies?” When Vincent hesitated he raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“I also can’t eat shellfish, eggs, any other kind of fish, or drink milk. That’s just lactose intolerance though,” Vincent said. “I’m also allergic to cats and dogs, but…” He shrugged. “Unless you have a cat…?”

“Is there anything you aren’t allergic to?”

“The fruits and vegetables should be fine,” Vincent said. “Oh, unless your apples have birch pollen on them. But that only makes my mouth itchy, so.”

Eugene pursed his lips. “Okay. For tonight I guess you’ll have to have salad. Lord, what am I going to feed you?”

“I can feed myself.”

“Good.” Eugene turned and wheeled himself towards the kitchen, presumably to make the salad as promised. He called as he left, “You can still drink wine, right?”

“Yeah!”

“What about vodka?”

* * *

Eugene was not actually terrible about the whole allergies thing. He was snide, but then, he was snide about everything. But he didn’t insult Vincent for having poor eyesight or a short life expectancy or weak lungs, and he didn’t insult Vincent about his allergies either.

In fact, he tried his best to be accommodating. Perhaps he had learned something of sympathy from losing the use of his legs.

One of the first things he did after Vincent had moved in was make a list and pin it to the refrigerator.

“Vincent’s Allergies: gluten, peanuts, tree nuts, shellfish, eggs, cats, dogs, fish, eggs, lactose.” Vincent read it aloud the first time he saw it on the fridge.

“That’s comprehensive, right?” Eugene said, his brow furrowed. “I tried to remember all of the ones you mentioned that first day. I don’t have an eidetic memory…”

But he did have a very good memory, probably one factor of his high IQ. Vincent nodded. “That’s all of them.”

“Well then,” Eugene said. “We’ll just check all your meals for all of these things and you’ll be fine.”

He was wearing a strained smile. Accommodating, yes. Casual about the matter, no.

“Eugene,” Vincent said. “I can check all these things for myself, you know. I’ve had these allergies pretty much all my life.” Well, it had taken him a while to figure out the gluten and the lactose was an on and off kind of thing, but for the most part…

“I will probably be responsible for most of our meals, right?” Eugene asked. “Seeing as I’m the one staying at home, and you’ll be busy all day. So if I’m ordering take-out, I can check that they cater to your allergies.”

“I’m not sure you should be responsible for…”

“You think I can’t handle it?”

“I mean, you’re not a housewife,” Vincent said.

Eugene crossed his arms. “I am the stay-at-home partner regardless—or, not partner, whatever, but I can at least take care of something this small.”

Vincent nodded. Clearly this had become a matter of pride. “All right then. I’ll count on you.” And, he thought privately, he’d keep his Epi-Pen close at hand and double-check everything Eugene fed him. Valids didn’t really know what they were doing with stuff like this.

As it turned out, though, Eugene was not bad at arranging meals. He only messed occasionally, and it was more often the store or restaurant’s fault than his. He had a mind for details. And when it was the store or restaurant giving incorrect information, he’d call them up the next day and really let them have it. Vincent liked to listen in on his rants. They were quite energetic.

When Vincent started going to work at Gattaca, Eugene made sure he had bagged lunches at first, because the Gattaca cafeteria, as Vincent could confirm after only a brief tour, didn’t really cater to dietary concerns. But this did not work out so well. Vincent was trying to fit in, after all, and even such a small concession as this made him stand out.

He first realized this on his second week of work. Chad Michaels, one of his coworkers, looked at the sandwich he was unwrapping from plastic and snorted. “Geez, man. Your last job really must have sucked.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, maybe a ten-dollar meal was a lot for you in the past, but…we get paid quite a bit here, you know? You can afford the lasagna. I swear.” Michaels raised his eyebrows mock-sincerely. “It’ll be okay.”

“I, uh…” Vincent cast about for an excuse. “Gluten is bad for your health,” he settled on. “Also lactose! The lasagna contains lactose. Gluten and lactose have been proven to be bad for your health.”

Michaels just shook his head.

Vincent bit into his sandwich. “Anyways, isn’t cafeteria food universally bad?”

“It’s actually pretty good here,” the woman sitting next to him said. “Come on. You can give it a try.” She smiled sweetly. “You won’t die from eating something that’s not gourmet.”

He grimaced. “Maybe next time.”

He vented to Eugene when he got home. “It’s not like I insulted the food, even! And I swear I saw people halfway across the room casting looks at me. Half of Gattaca now thinks I’m either a skinflint or a snob.”

Eugene nodded. “Valids.”

“Seriously, Eugene!”

“I am serious. Valids all…how do I put this?” Eugene scrubbed at his eyes. “Valids want to be like each other. We want to do what’s done, we’re _supposed_ to do what’s done. In the Olympic circles there are certain practices everyone follows as well—standard exercise regimens, foods we do or don’t eat, a detachment from politics—well, a supposed detachment from politics,” he added when Vincent raised his eyebrows. “…at any rate, Gattaca is a closed system. You don’t just have to adapt to being me, Jerome. You have to adapt to that system.”

“Eating lasagna will kill me. Eventually.”

“There’s really nothing on the menu you can eat?”

In the end, Vincent ended up getting a Caesar salad with chicken and without cheese or croutons. Every. Single. Day.

People made fun of him for being predictable, but in a fond way. He had fallen in with the given order.

* * *

There was a very nice woman who worked in the cubicle next to Vincent’s. Her name was Joan. She was sixty-three, loved talking about her daughters and grandchildren, and consistently tried to give him cookies. He tried to refuse them politely, sometimes saying he didn’t eat gluten, lactose or eggs, sometimes saying he was trying to lose weight.

“Jerome,” she said one day, calling him over, “I made this batch especially for you. No eggs. No gluten. No lactose. Special recipe. Here, give one a try.”

He had a slight cold that week. He’d been hiding it as best he could—blowing his nose only when he absolutely had to, speaking very little to hide the scratch in his throat. But it left him tired and messed with his sense of smell. So it was that he did not argue too much and did not realize he had taken a large bite of a peanut-butter cookie until he swallowed.

Joan must have seen the look on his face. “Jerome? Jerome, are you all right?”

He put the rest of the cookie on his desk and forced a smile. “Sorry, I really need to use the bathroom.”

Grabbing his briefcase, he ran off before she could interrogate him, though he did hear her calling something after him.

In the bathroom, he locked himself into a stall. Scrambled through his briefcase, found the Epi-Pen, and injected. Then he stuck a finger down his throat and forced himself to vomit.

He cleaned his face and washed the taste out of his mouth. Then he called Eugene.

“I’ll be coming home early today.”

He said he had to leave for a family emergency; Gattaca was not very understanding about leaving for reasons of personal health. He rested up. Listened to Eugene rant about how peanut butter cookies were disgusting anyway. Brought a bagged lunch in the next day, out of over-caution. One time the Gattaca cafeteria put nuts in the Caesar salad, too. That had been a sad day, though at least then he’d caught himself before eating it. He was very careful with his salads.

These were danger days. But at least the solutions were easy. One day that was much worse was when Gattaca, for some ill-advised reason, decided to have a “take-your-pet-to-work” day.

“Seriously?” Eugene said when he heard about it. “That can’t be sanitary.” He frowned. “You should stay home.”

But it was the day of an important meeting regarding launch plans. Vincent did not stay home. He went to work and was surrounded by roughly four cats and three dogs in his room alone, as well as assorted hamsters, chinchillas, and turtles, and one rabbit. They were all very cute. Vincent wished he could breathe well enough to appreciate them.

His red eyes and rasping were bad enough that he was actually sent to visit Dr. Lamar. Lamar took some samples and gave him an examination and offered a diagnosis.

“You’re experiencing an allergic reaction.”

No duh. Vincent said, “That can’t be it, sir.” Jerome wasn’t allergic to…

“You know your genetic record says you’re allergic to chinchillas, Jerome,” Dr. Lamar said.

Vincent blinked.

“I admit, you may not have realized that. It’s pretty far down on your record. A very rare allergy—it’s no surprise your parents didn’t think to screen it.” Dr. Lamar offered a smile. “Well, it’s too bad. Of course it’s not as big of a problem as being allergic to cats or dogs, but situations like these do crop up. Take some antihistamines today and tomorrow, and you’ll be fine.”

Vincent dazedly thanked him. Dr. Lamar didn’t offer him a prescription—thoughtlessness on his part—but that was fine. Vincent already had plenty of antihistamines.

He also now had some questions for Eugene.

“I’m not allergic to chinchillas,” Eugene said stubbornly that evening.

“Dr. Lamar said…”

“Dr. Lamar is an idiot who thinks you’re me. You can’t trust that.”

“It’s on your genetic record.”

“You have a heart condition on your genetic record, and you don’t…”

“Is it that embarrassing?”

Eugene looked away. “I am not allergic to chinchillas.”

Vincent shrugged. “Okay. Well, it saved me at work today, so I’d say it’s an advantage, but whatever you say.”

“Nasty things,” Eugene muttered. “You don’t have any of their hair left on you, do you?” He rubbed his eyes. “Oh my God. You do. Please throw that entire outfit out.”

They ate rice noodles and tomato sauce for dinner in severe silence, broken only by the occasional sniffle.

**Author's Note:**

> I was gonna write this fic like. Two years ago. but oh well, at least it's here now, as messy and pointless as ever. I hope someone out there enjoys.


End file.
